When we Americans went into the 170th, Seeger, Morlae, Narutz and others stayed with the 2nd Legion, which two weeks later was merged with the 1st Legion. Narutz remarked, in his philosophic manner, “The 170th is a regiment volante, always used in quick, double action work. Their specialty is bayonet attack. I am too old to go steeple chasing over barbed wire, in a ripped up country, with not one hundred yards of solid ground, then twenty yards of nothing, a 70 pound sack on my back, a two dollar thirst in my stomach and Boche machine guns in front. Believe me, the Legion is quite swift enough. I know what this is and will stick to what I have and am used to—what I have not had, I might not like.” Seeger, as usual, silent, mystic, indomitable, appeared not to listen. His thoughts were in the clouds. He had made up his mind to stay. That settled it—no explanation necessary.

Of the Americans who changed, but three, Sergeant Capdeville, Sergeant Jacobs and Lieutenant Mulhauser remain. The Colonel, of that date, is now General Polalacelli.

The 170th is a notable regiments. Time and again have its members been complimented by General Joffre. They are his children, his pride. Never were they called upon when they failed to make good. They have rushed into almost certain extermination and came out alive. Anointed with success, they fear nothing. They have charged into a cataclysm of destruction, which swallowed up whole companies, and returned with a battalion of German prisoners.

Against all opposition, they prevail. Spite of death, they live, always triumphant, never defeated. Theirs is an invincibility—a contempt of peril, which only men who have continually risked and won can have. In the confusion and complications of battle, they are masters in obstruction and counter-attack. They have been torn, shocked and churned about—but they have arrived. Faces burning in zeal, exalted for the cause they serve, stimulated by the companionship of kindred spirits, they heedlessly dash to victory, or, the sunset—for the secret of victory rests in the hearts of the combatants.

We turned directly about and went with this new regiment, back to the front line. We relieved our own old regiment, the Foreign Legion. Eight men, all Americans, were together in one squad. Inside of a week, only three were left. That is, there were but three, when I was sent away for repairs.

We were in a captured German headquarters with equipment, ammunition, war debris, dead men and killed horses, strewed about. Along the edge of a hill was a German graveyard. About two hundred German soldiers, killed in a previous engagement, were buried there. German batteries, on the opposite hill top, kept bombarding their lost position, hoping to drive the French captors out. They shot up those dead Germans—the atmosphere grew pungent—the stench penetrated every corner. It settled heavy on the lungs. It was impossible to get away from it. It was in late October, 1915. The only time food or water could be sent up was during the night. Coffee was chilled by morning. During the day, as usual, we slept in the bottom of the trenches with shoes and cartridge belts on. At night the regular program was,—patrol, guard, digging trenches, placing barbed wire, bringing up ammunition and supplies, with always that dreadful smell.

One morning, October 19, 1915, looking over at the Boche, I saw a shrapnel burst overhead. A second after a bullet embedded itself in my forehead. Some time later, feeling foolish for having been caught as shortstop for a German hit, I heard Bob Scanlon say, “You lucky fool. You lay rolled up warm in those Boche blankets all morning, while I was up, trying to find a place to heat the coffee. Now, you will go south, where it is warm, and I shall have to stay here and freeze.”